The Countdown
by mtwordsr
Summary: Peeta goes through what he dreaded most: losing himself one by one, at the hands of the Capitol.
1. 3

This idea popped into my head Friday night, and argh I wanted the whole thing to be up this weekend, but... well. You know the story; it's still the same.

I hope you all enjoy it.

Ladies and gentlemen, let's begin the Countdown.

**I don't own the Hunger Games.**

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><p>The Capitol is unfathomably nice to me the first few days of my capture. It doesn't take me long to realize what's going on, though. I am a pig being set up for slaughter.<p>

"You can have anything on the table," they told me.

I stare at the fully loaded dinner table in front of me. The amount of food on the table is fit to feed an army, but it's all for me. There is a single silver plate in front of me, with an intricate golden floral design on it. They let me eat once a day, I think on purpose: whenever I get to the table I need to eat. I need to eat all the delicious foods they have laid out for me. They give me more than an hour. It's impossible to resist.

"Eat quickly, now," says the guard, on one day. "We have something ready for you."

"Something," I repeat, playing with a chicken leg. "That sounds ominous."

The guard doesn't laugh. "It's an interview."

"Like I said," I say, turning back to my food, "it sounds absolutely terrifying, and I think I might take my time."

"You have ten minutes to eat."

Of course.

I don't respond, but the guard leaves anyway. I eat more chicken, a plateful of vegetables, and a croissant. The croissant is soft and buttery but somehow it tastes nowhere near as good as the poorly made ones we have at home—because after all, _those _ones are made at home. I bite into it, closing my eyes. I sit still, imagining that maybe I'm sitting on a stool at home, stealing bread that we're supposed to be selling. I wonder if I believe in it enough, it will be true.

But then I open my eyes.

An hour and a half later, my eyelids feel heavy with make-up, and it feels as though it's dangerous to flinch. _Everything from the cutlery to the upholstery is overdone in the Capitol_, I muse as I settle into the chair they've set out for me. It feels so breakable, which is weird. It's an armchair, after all. Also, is it strange to feel awkward to be comfortable in a comfy chair?

"We just want you to be honest, now."

I look up at Panem's president and smile. "I'm sure you don't."

President Snow smiles back, trained just as much as I am to look agreeable. I look into his eyes, though, and feel nowhere close to comfort. "No, I honestly do want you to just tell Caesar the truth. We just want you to say whatever it is you want."

"I'm trusting you have some sort of plan to turn this your way, of course," I say, leaning back in my seat.

"Well," he says.

Caesar comes into the studio. "Oh, sorry." He makes to move out, but President Snow stops him.

"No, we were just finishing up, Caesar," says President Snow. I try not to roll my eyes. More like he didn't want to answer me. "Are we ready?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

President Snow stands up straighter, fixing his tie, even though he's not going to be on screen. I wonder if he's nervous. I glance at the camera. Technically speaking, Katniss is on the other side of the glass. I lick my lips nervously and close my eyes. _Katniss_, I think. _Don't let go of that thought, Peeta Mellark..._

Caesar sits on the chair across from me. He's dazzling in an uncomfortable way, wearing a sparkly suit and an inch layer of make up on him. To me, he looks like a sad attempt at a clown. I'm sure that in some strange way this is considered fashionable in the Capitol. I settle myself comfortably back in my seat (_Katniss_), and smile at him. He smiles back. Caesar is ready for the camera, too.

"And, you're on, in three, two..." The camera man holds up a thumb.

Caesar beams in that direction before giving me a long look. "So... Peeta... welcome back."

I smile a little. "I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar." I'd thought so, too—I'd hoped so. Much to my bitter disappointment, I am not done doing interviews with Caesar Flickerman.

"I confess, I did," says Caesar. "The night before the Quarter Quell... well, who ever thought we'd see you again?"

He seems to be thinking the same way I am. "It wasn't part of my plan, that's for sure," says Peeta with a frown.

Caesar leans in a little. It's meant to show that he is a friend of mine. That we're close. That there would be secrets between us. It's subtle, but I recognize it. All of this interview is a lie.

"I think it was clear to all of us what your plan was. To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive."

That, too, is a lie, but even that strikes something in me that makes me want to cry. _My child_. In my fantasies the child still exists; she is mine and she is Katniss'. I imagine she would be more like Katniss, with a grey eyes, dark hair, and a fighting spirit. I press my lips together, casting my eyes down at the upholstery of the chair. "That was it," I say as my finger traces the pattern idly. "Clear and simple. But other people had plans as well."

I look up again, tightening my jaw. If I had _known _about the plan. If Katniss and I had known... I suppose it's a good thing that we weren't in the planning. Otherwise this probably would hurt even more. And it makes Katniss is safer... but then we'd have been prepared, and none of this would have happened.

"Why don't you tell us about that last night in the arena?" Caesar asks. "Help us sort a few things out."

I nod, but I don't like remembering it. I exhale slowly, arranging my memories in my head. The fear comes back to me, but I soothe myself. I must be strong. I need to be, for Katniss. So I tell Caesar—and all of Panem—what it felt like to be in that arena. What it felt like to plan your death, and only because you wanted another to survive in your place. How every hour, every second, was a countdown to and reminder of my death.

Dimly, I think about how I didn't care, because _Katniss would live_. I recall forcing the idea of my child in Katniss' stomach, and how I almost wanted it to be true, if it meant that both of them would live. The idea of my child—being Katniss' as well—enthralled me. It still does. I imagine it would be a girl. Maybe she'd like to bake. I would love that. The idea of it now sends a pang through me. Baking. With my daughter. A carbon copy of the girl I love.

Eventually, my conversation with Caesar gets away from me. I am agitated with the reminder of my radical failure. I did not mean to get separated from Katniss. I did not want to get separated from Katniss. But I was, and now I am in the hands of the Capitol.

Caesar finishes by asking my thoughts on the war.

What a question.

I want to scream at him. This is ridiculous and stupid and why are we even inhabiting this planet when we are so horrible. Instead, tiredly, I ask for a cease-fire, and then I ask to go back to my quarters to make a thousand more card houses.

As the guards escort me back to my quarters from the studio, there is more on my mind than just war, though.

The guards notice it. One asks, "What's so funny?"

"Funny? Not funny," I say.

"What's with the smile?"

"Is it a crime?" I ask.

The guard narrows his eyes.

"Can you imagine me being a dad?" I ask as they shove me into my room. I turn around to my guards, fully expecting an answer. "You think I'd be good?"

Then the guard smiles. "I guess you'll never really find out."

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><p><em><strong>Review, please!<strong>_


	2. 2

**I don't own the Hunger Games.**

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><p>I think they put something in my food lately. It's been only five days, and I am too tired.<p>

It would be so easy to be past the point of caring, but everywhere I look, I think of Katniss and how I have to keep fighting. For her. I need to keep her alive, and I'm pretty sure it would be so much easier to do that if I were alive, too.

They have a mirror in my room, and there's a bathroom scale in my en-suite. (They're still treating me like a king, except maybe for whatever they're putting in my food.)

The scale, though, I refuse to touch. I'm not sure I want to know how much weight I've lost in the short span of time I've been with the Capitol.

I know they're putting something in my food because I'm disgusting. I stand naked in front of the bathroom mirror _and I can see my bones_. My skin hugs tight against my insides. I run my hand along my ribs, and honestly, I've never felt anything more repulsive. I might throw up, if I didn't know that it would just make things worse.

I see myself shake, when I look in the mirror, when I glance down at my hands. I reach for a tooth brush or a fork and my hand trembles. I bring food up to my mouth, and the energy it takes to bring the weight up to my mouth is too much. By then, I can't get the fork in my mouth, and the food drops back onto my plate—then I try again. Eventually, I get the food in my mouth. It takes an effort to chew. It is a relief to swallow. By that point I don't care that they're putting something in it—I am just so hungry.

I know that they are planning another interview for me. Mostly, I'm scared about if Katniss will see it, and what she'll think when she sees me. A part of me thinks that she won't care, but then I'm reminded that she was willing to die for me...

I really shouldn't be thinking about whether Katniss loves me or not at this moment... but I know she will at least worry. That's why it's a good idea (at least on Snow's part) to put me on camera a mere five days after I looked healthy and beautiful. Then there's right now. And how I look like right now. Snow _did _turn things his way.

She ought to know what's going on, though... I _am _listening. The Capitol isn't good, but the rebels aren't too different. I know what Coin wants, and I know what Snow wants. I know what they are capable of doing, and I'm not sure Katniss _does_. I'm not sure she realizes what could happen in this war.

During the interview, Caesar and I are talking, but I'm not sure if I can understand what I'm saying. Caesar seems to be responding like I'm making sense, but to be honest, I'm not sure anymore. Everything that's coming out of my mouth feels useless. Then he mentions Katniss, and her name echoes in my ears. _Katniss... Katniss... rumors. She's taping propos for the Districts._

"They're using her, obviously," I say firmly. "To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what's going in the war. What's at stake."

Caesar asks, "Is there anything you'd like to tell her?"

"There is," I say instantly. I turn to the camera, imagine Katniss' eyes. She did say that I had a way with words. "Don't be a fool, Katniss. Think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask yourself: do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on? And if you don't... find out."

Snow emerges as soon as the cameraman yells cut.

I settle back in my seat. "There's not much more you can do to hurt me, Mr. President."

His eyes narrow. He crosses the room in a few swift steps, leaning close to me. The stench of blood and roses waft toward me. I hold my breath. "What are you trying to accomplish, Peeta? You're not working for the rebels, but you're not working for us, either."

"I don't pick sides," I reply. "Unless there's a side that wants no bloodshed."

"Ah." He leans away. I inhale in relief. "You always were the most pacifistic tribute that seventy-five years of the Hunger Games had ever seen... I don't know why I'm so surprised."

"I already established this, Mr. President. I don't want a war."

Snow nods. "Right. You want a _cease-fire_." He shakes his head, amused. "Don't you understand? The rebels won't stop until we will, but if we stop, they strike."

"What if they stop? Will you strike?" I ask.

He smiles. "You know the answer to that."

"_Exactly_. What are _you _trying to accomplish, then?" I snap, standing up. "You know that neither side will surrender, so this war will go on until there's no one left but you or Coin. Then what is the point of that? Why will you keep going when you have no one to preside over, President? You are an _idiot _and this war is _pointless_ and it will achieve _nothing_!"

Snow leans back. "Take him back to his quarters."

"Why will nobody listen to me?" I yell, less to Snow, more to myself—because I know, deep down, that no matter what I say to Katniss, she is still going to have to put her trust in the rebels. The Capitol's done too much to hurt her to make her trust _them_. So far, the rebels have a clean record.

Snow murmurs something to the guard before they drag me away.

I look over my shoulder. "Wait," I say suddenly. "Snow."

"Yes?" His back faces me.

"If you want Katniss to work against the rebels, you have to make her hate them, first. Otherwise, the side she'll pick is whichever one goes against you," I say.

Snow turns around. "Oh, I know."

As I'm pulled away, I have to wonder if Snow knows what he's doing.

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><p><em><strong>Review, please!<strong>_

Last chapter coming soon.


	3. 1

**I don't own the Hunger Games**.

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><p>They don't know I know. They don't know that I know <em>what they are going to do to her<em>, and it's all my fault. I shouldn't have said all those stupid things on camera. I should have been more careful.

"Do you have any parting thoughts, Peeta?" asks Caesar. "For Katniss?"

I gasp in effort. _Katniss_. Hold on to that thought. I desperately force myself to think of Katniss. She's been slipping away from me lately—I find that I can't remember certain things about her. That I can't remember...

"Katniss..." I wheeze, "how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you... in Thirteen..." It's hard to breathe. "_Dead by morning_!"

"End it!" yells Snow, bursting into the studio. His voice quiets. "Are you—are you an _idiot_?"

"Idiot," I repeat, nodding. "Yes."

"Obviously!"

I inhale, fighting for breath. "But I'd take being that... over being evil... any day." I watch the camera get knocked over as the men rush into the room.

I scream in agony as they hit me. I try to take a breath, but before even that can happen, there is another blow. Blood splatters the tiles in front of me.

…

I didn't know much about the tracker jackers aside from what they made a person look like. I'd seen it happen often enough in the Hunger Games. I'd seen how disgusting and repulsing they made a person—to the point where I didn't even care about preserving life, which is saying something, since I'm usually supportive of that philosophy. The people who tracker jackers attack should be dead. Tracker jacker victims _should _die; once they've been stung, they should have that mercy.

They lock me in a room with mirrors for walls. I see myself in all angles. I see what I have become: ruined, broken. The floors are padded. I am scared. So, so scared.

I woke up here. I should have seen it coming.

"What do you have for me?" I whisper. "What will you do to me?"

I sit down.

It feels childish, but I ask, "Will it hurt?"

As the ceilings cave above me, as I look up, I think—stupidly—that nothing will make me stop loving Katniss. Nothing.

She is my last thought as I am engulfed in a sea of gold. I know what they're going to do with me, and desperately, I remind myself of what I love most. Maybe it is a stupid thing to do.

_You love her. Katniss Everdeen._

She's a hunter. Her favorite color is green. She loves her little sister Primrose more than anything else in the world, and she is surer of little else. She lost her father in a mining accident. Her father had the voice of an angel. She learned how to shoot a bow and arrow from him. Nobody has a better shot than she has. She gets the eye, every time. She scowls all the time except in her sleep, when, although she looks more agreeable, she is not the Katniss I know and love. She's a hunter, cold and calculating, or so she thinks. Her voice. It's beautiful.

Little stabs shoot through me all over. My knee, my ankle, my arm, my sides, my neck. Everything disappears.

…

_That Everdeen girl brought some squirrel for us_, says Father.

Tom, my second-oldest brother, gags. _I was sick for a week after she brought us that hare._

_Well, what do you want me to do with it? _Father asks, holding up the squirrel.

_We can't very well throw it out_, says Mother with an irritated sigh. _That's a waste. That gives us a whole meal._

_And we'd lose a whole meal from how sick we'd get from eating it_, I say suddenly.

_The girl probably poisons it._ Mother gives the squirrel a wary look before snatching it from my father. _I'll cook it as well as I can, but... there's not much else..._

…

I see her. We're only eleven at the time. She rummages through our garbage. But the cans have just been cleaned out. She carries a bag full of food. Then she gets into our kitchen. For some reason I'm frozen. I watch as she wipes out our entire store.

Mother comes in when she leaves. _What happened to the food?_

_I—I—don't know_, I stammer.

I sleep with a bruise that night.

…

At the reaping, she thrashes when she is chosen. She fights the crowd, trying to run away, hurting everyone that gets in her way.

_You can't take me! _she screams. _Take someone else! Not me!_

They have to hold her down when she's on the stage.

When I am chosen, and I have to shake her hand, she squeezes it so hard I feel like my fingers might break.

In the memory she does. Like she tells me, _You're going down_.

…

On the train, she scoffs at my ability to fight. She labels me as a weakling, a wuss, a lover, not a fighter. She says that I won't survive a second in the arena.

Afterward she apologizes. I am suspicious. I am right. She kisses me passionately—roughly. I kiss back. It feels like the moment lasts forever. She unbuttons my shirt—I push her away. _No_, I whisper.

…

In the arena, she poisons me—but Haymitch gives me a something to stop it.

She drops a tracker jacker nest on my head. I burn for days. I am overcome with hallucinations

…

_She's a _mutt_, _Haymitch says to me. _My family. My girl. She killed them._

_A mutt? _I ask. _I thought she was just..._

_No, _says Haymitch, shaking his head. _She's a real mutt. The Capitol _made _her._

I turn to her, where she eats her lunch. She seems normal, but my heart rate quickens with fear.

I am scared. I am so, so, scared.

…

_Have you seen Tia? _I ask one of my friends. His name is Cassel. _I haven't seen her in ages._

Cassel looks startled. His voice lowers. _You haven't heard?_

_About what?_

_Tia and her family died_, he whispers. _Two days ago. They found them dead. They bled to death._

_They were _stabbed_? _I ask, startled.

Cassel shakes his head. He looks over his shoulder nervously. I see her. _Shot_.

…

My house burns. It is glowing. Fire engulfs it, eating away at my home and the people in it.

_No! _I scream. _No! Why? My _home_! WHY?_

I see a face in the shadows.

They call her the girl on fire.

She spreads the flames.

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><p><em><strong>Review, please!<strong>_

You know, I figure, he's mad. The visions don't have to make sense.


	4. 0

**I don't own the Hunger Games**.

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><p>"How are you doing today, Peeta?"<p>

I look straight ahead of me, at the last card house I built. I got up six levels—but the most I've done is thirteen. "As good as usual, Mr. President. Which is to say _not good at all_, thanks to you."

President Snow smiles, stops his pacing. "That hasn't changed, then."

"What did you think tracker jacker torture would do?" I ask. "Change my opinion of you?"

He laughs. "No. Of course not."

"Because if anything, it's made my opinion of you, your government, and your city, look way more horrible than it already is," I go on.

"I'm sure it has. I'm glad it has."

I raise a brow.

The president of Panem gives me a small smile. What is he up to? "There is so much more to this than you do not understand, Peeta Mellark..."

"And I'm guessing you won't tell me."

"Of course." He puts his hands in his pockets. "Hmm... I guess there is one thing. I wonder if you remember. You told me a bit of advice once. That to get a certain someone on my side, I needed to get that person to hate the opposition more than that person hated me."

"I think I'm following..." I say slowly.

"Do you remember that?" he asks.

…

Stars spin around my head.

_To make her go against you, you have to make her hate the rebels more_, I said.

_Oh, I know_, he replied.

The stars blink in front of my eyes.

…

"A little," I answer. "The memory's a bit... shiny."

President Snow hesitates, but he nods. "Do you remember who we were talking about?"

I think back, but nothing comes to me. Just... _stars_. "No."

"Okay. Listen to me," he says, after a very, very, long pause. "Today is your last day in the Capitol."

"Am I going to die today, Mr. President?"

"No," he replies. "But the rebels are going to take you back."

I process this. Then I look up at him, startled. "And you just plan on letting them?"

"Certainly." President Snow smiles. "You're no use to me now."

"What use was I to you _ever_?" I demand.

"Well."

I recognize that 'well'. It's that 'well' that the president uses whenever he's decided that the conversation's gone too far, that there's this question I've asked that he cannot or—more probably—will not answer, that our talk will soon be terminated. I lean back in my seat, fully expecting it.

But he says, "I guess you don't remember. But I'm not going to go about reminding you. I think you ought to remember it yourself."

"You're hiding something from me," I say.

"We are not friends, Peeta Mellark. I will always tell you the truth, but to do that there has to be some things that I can't tell you." President Snow gives me another smile. It's supposed to make me feel safe near him, but now all the more I am frightened of what he is capable of doing to me—what he _has _done to me. "There's just one last thing I want to say to you before the rebels come."

"Yeah?"

He steps toward me. Blood and roses.

"Katniss Everdeen."

My heart rate quickens. "How dare you—how can you _say _that name to me—after everything—"

President Snow shakes his head. That was the last thing he was going to say to me. He exits the room with nothing else to say.

I am going back to the rebels, then. In a lot of ways, that's a good thing.

_Kill Katniss Everdeen_.

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><p><strong><em>Review, please!<em>**


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